


crown another

by IuvenesCor



Series: Old Works and WIPs [1]
Category: Bastille (Band)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Gen, Nobility, loosely inspired by Daniel in the Den
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:34:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27664790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IuvenesCor/pseuds/IuvenesCor
Summary: London’s broken, the House of Lords is desperate, and Dan has apparently had enough.(NOTE: this work is a permanent WIP!)
Series: Old Works and WIPs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2022838
Comments: 6
Kudos: 4





	crown another

**Author's Note:**

> After having a small writer’s crisis, and being determined to break myself out of it in the most stubborn and self-supportive way possible, I remembered that I have about a billion WIPs (okay, hyperbole) that I really enjoy, but can’t imagine finishing any time soon, for a variety of reasons. And I thought, to heck with it— post them anyway! 
> 
> This one was maybe less in character and more a writing exercise? Not sure. All I remember is that I was going through a LOT when I wrote this last year, and I just wanted a little self-indulgent dystopia writing in an attempt to distract myself. Much time was spent using the internet and studying maps to get even half of an idea how London works, and at least for all that effort (I am usually bad at researching), this deserves seeing a little light of day, lol.

“Did he tell you? Did you know that he was going to leave?”

Will’s instinct was to watch the floor in silence, even though that would hardly ease the tension in the room. It wasn’t proper etiquette to ignore one’s betters. And while Lord and Lady Smith were no more his betters than Monet was greater than Van Gogh— he was a lord just the same, a title granted to him by years of family history— they were older and more powerful, and therefore more worthy to be revered. 

Besides, Will wasn’t heartless. Their son had just run away from home. They wanted answers; the least he could do was give them some.

“That’s two different questions,” he answered mildly, trying to find a gentle way to explain the truth. “He didn’t tell me anything. But I think it was obvious he’d try something like this.”

Lord Smith scowled. “Obvious? What the hell do you mean, obvious? Were we supposed to prepare for this?” His anger at Will did little to hide his fears. “You were meant to be his friend, to watch him. If you had even the slightest notion that he was going to leave, you should have told us!”

That might have been true. It had been a long-standing agreement— nearly two decades now— between the Smiths and the Farquarsons that Will would forever be Dan’s compulsory friend. Granted, _friend_ wasn’t the right word for the situation. _Guardian. Watchman_. That’s what the boy, the teen, the young man was meant to be for his younger counterpart. Hypothetically, Dan would be less wary of someone in his peer group tending to him than he would be of an unfamiliar adult or even one of his siblings. 

The hypothesis was correct. The boys could have been resentful of each other; granted, only Will was formally clued into that whole compulsory part of their relationship, but Dan was a smart kid. He didn’t need to be told that Will’s constant companionship was a bit unnatural. Yet they got along quite well over the years. They were _real_ friends, and not just puppets in a play.

Maybe that’s why Will kept his mouth shut.

(That was absolutely why Will kept his mouth shut.)

“I’m not saying I agree with him going out there, sir,” Will tentatively began, formality rolling off his tongue by habit, “but he’s in his twenties, now.”

Not much else needed to be said to make his point, which left opportunity for Lady Smith to interrupt. “Danny can be whatever age he wants, that still doesn’t make it safe for him outside these walls. It isn’t safe for any of us, and now he’s gone out alone. He doesn’t know what it’s like out there.”

 _Do any of us?_ Will couldn’t help but ask in his head. The Smiths probably knew the most about the outside world, given that they were practically at the top of England’s food chain. In the confines of the House, that family’s word was law— outside of the House, too. London, and the entire Once-United Kingdom, may have been in shambles for decades, but the movements of the rich and powerful still made waves. Yet even with the Smiths’ status, what did they know about the boroughs, the encampments, the decrepit streets beyond their domed domicile? 

Dan certainly didn’t know much. He read often, soaking up old texts about how the world used to be, and watched near ancient films depicting England in the time of prosperity and progress and peace. But he didn’t like the knowledge that came with being one of the elite. He didn’t like learning about the destruction outside the walls that kept him safe. He turned his head, looked away, buried himself in the old stories instead of sitting quietly and accepting politely the reports of today’s England and what she had become.

But in Will’s opinion, his friend knew more about their country than anyone else— certainly more than his parents. Dan may have shied away from all the official documentations of this riot and that protest and every surge of sickness and death that seemed to hover over London like the ever-present fog; but anything he did hear, he kept with him, mulling it over and over at all hours until it recently began consuming his every thought. 

_Why haven’t we fixed this?_ the young man asked his friend one day. _I know it’s easier said than done, but, like… everything’s so fucked up out there, and we’re in here just talking about it._

Will, in the interest of not encouraging the younger into any rash actions, could only reply _I dunno._

Clearly, Dan didn’t need any encouragement to be rash. 

“Talking as his friend… Dan’s not like the rest of us.” Despite the burning glares of the Lord and Lady directed at him, Will continued with his defence. “I know that you both know that, being his family. And I _have_ told you what he thinks— he’s told you what he thinks, even though he knows it will get him told off. He wants to take care of those people out there.”

With a contemptuous snort, Lord Smith turned away, facing the windows of the room to get an uninspiring view of the Dome outside. “What are you saying, William? That none of us care about our country? That we’re satisfied letting people suffer?”

“No, sir. But perhaps we’re being a bit too safe with ourselves?”

“Too safe… there are hordes of men and women out there who want us dead, just because we have what they don’t! We’re trying to build England back up out of the ashes. But if we went out there, we would be assassinated instantly. I will _not_ take criticism for wanting to keep my family safe, do you understand?”

Will bowed his head. “I understand, sir. But—”

“We should have never told him.”

Will’s eyes drifted upward as Lady Smith’s barely audible interjection stalled his words. Lord Smith turned from the window, giving his wife a warning look, and murmured, “Not now, love.”

But the Lady stood her ground. “Why now, of all times, did Danny choose to run off to the outside? Why do you think? We shouldn’t have said anything.”

Lord Smith stiffened. “Are you accusing me? If I remember, you were just as ready to tell him as I was—”

“What?” Rising from his chair, Will laid questioning eyes on them both. “What did you tell Dan?”

“That’s not for us to discuss, William,” Lord Smith warned.

“Does my father know?” Usually when things ‘weren’t to be discussed,’ Will knew it was just another one of the great schemes that either his or Dan’s parents had devised in ‘everyone’s best interest.’ The likelihood of every ruling noble knowing the truth, while their children were left in the dark, was high in such moments. But since Will’s mother had passed, her voting rights in their poor imitation of a Parliament were Will’s inheritance— and his best form of leverage. If Lord Farquarson the Elder knew the Smiths’ secret, Lord Farquarson the Younger had just as much privilege to be told the truth.

(The Smiths had a habit of that— finding ways to leave Will out of a Parliament vote or discussion— if it in any way involved their son. They were clearly afraid that Will’s allegiance as a friend was stronger than his vow as a watchman, and that he would tell Dan the things they wished to keep out of his ears. While that was absolutely true, Will still had decency. He wasn’t going to tell Dan anything unless it was vital. And now, seeing as Dan was the one knowing while Will was uninformed, there was no excuse for them to hide anything.)

Both of Dan’s parents squirmed as if he had them at gunpoint, looking very uncomfortable with his challenge. But they knew as well as he did: with Dan outside of the Dome, things couldn’t get any worse.

“We— meaning us, your father, and a few of the other families— feel it’s finally time to put all our energies into reconstituting the United Kingdom,” said Lady Smith. “Not simply begging like paupers to other countries to give us aid for the people, but stirring morale, bringing everyone together in the common goal of being a proper society. It’s been decades since there was any semblance of unity in this godforsaken place. The people, they need more than food and shelter. They need proper housing, jobs, transportation— and we can’t make that happen out of thin air. We need their cooperation.”

Will nodded slowly. “Yes. I’ve been there for those discussions. No offense, ma’am, but that’s old news.”

While her husband’s irritation at Will felt almost tangible, Lady Smith maintained whatever composure she’d been keeping. “We can’t get the people’s cooperation without their trust, and we have to assume that they will never trust us in the current state of affairs. It’s been concluded that we need someone as a figurehead— someone they’ve never seen or heard from before who speaks to their needs, who can speak honestly with them and gain their loyalty on behalf of the greater good. We were a kingdom once. So what’s a kingdom without a king?”

That made sense, Will supposed. The last royal family of England had been wiped out years ago, so there weren’t any legitimate heirs to the imaginary throne. But people needed more than talking heads to spur them into action. Telling the public repeatedly _we’re doing our best_ over impersonal radio broadcasts wasn’t really doing the ruling class any favours. And as much as a king was a representation of the ruling class, the highest nobility, it was possible for him to be loved by his people, providing he was the sort who _could_ be loved. That’s what the history books seemed to imply, anyway.

“Okay. But what does that have to do with—”

_Oh._

Will gaped mid-sentence, searching for something succinct and proper to say, but the extent of his eloquence boiled down to a quiet “Whoa.” That was shortly followed by, “You want Dan to be the bloody King of England.”

“And why shouldn’t he be?” Lord Smith’s smile was grim, but it was a smile nonetheless, catching Will off guard. It reminded the young man that this wasn’t just some noble they were talking about, nor simply his lifelong friend. This was their child, and that was pride in their faces.

 _Why shouldn’t he be?_ Will could think of one reason immediately. “I’m assuming he didn’t like that plan.”

Closing her eyes, Lady Smith sighed, “No. He thinks he’s not worthy. He doesn’t want to be seen as any more important than anyone else.”

“Says the man who lives in what the common people would call luxury,” her husband muttered.

Well, it was luxury, at least comparatively. But Will wasn’t about to argue that. He liked his comfortable living just as much as the next man, even if it wasn’t _fair._

“Was he given the choice?” Will asked.

More uncomfortable squirming, and Lady Smith answered, “He’s the best candidate out of the entire House. Young, smart, handsome, selfless… He would make an effective leader. If he wanted to be king, then I don’t think we’d have chosen correctly. Everyone agrees, except Danny.”

“Apparently,” Will murmured. Leave it to Dan to be obnoxiously humble. 

“He thinks this is the best way for him to refuse it, I’m sure.” Shaking his head, Lord Smith began pacing the room. “Bloody fool, that son of ours. You say selfless, but that’s a very selfish thing he just did to us. Selfish and dangerous. We have to find him before he gets himself in trouble.”

“Agreed. He couldn’t have gone far— he was with us for breakfast this morning.”

“It’s inexcusable that they let him leave in the first place.”

“Well, it’s not as if anyone has tried to leave in recent memory. The guards haven’t been trained for that…”

“Of course not, because it’s half-arsed to even _think_ of going out there.”

Listening to Dan’s parents banter back and forth as his eyes wandered elsewhere made Will wonder if it even occurred to them that _talking_ about getting Dan back wasn’t actually going to get him back any sooner. Not to mention that it was apparently Dan’s choice to leave; was it their right to stop him? 

(It wasn’t, but that didn’t stop Will from worrying. The outside was a dangerous place for anyone, let alone a member of a Parliament family. Dan Smith might have been book-smart, but that didn’t mean he had the slightest idea of how to keep his head in what might as well be a different world.)

“We can’t send security after him. Officials always attract the rioters.”

“Well then, who are we supposed to send?”

Only after some time did Will become aware of the silence that followed. When he turned his gaze back to the Smiths, he was unnerved to find that they were staring straight at him.

“Sorry?” he hesitated.

“William, you’re his best friend. He listens to you.” ( _Actually,_ I _listen to_ him _for the most part,_ Will could argue, but he wasn’t about to tell that to Lord Smith.) “You would know his movements better than any of us. And I know you take a special interest to reading the reports from outside the Dome. Please. Help us get Dan back.”

For all that the man’s words were true, and for all that Will did care deeply about Dan’s safety, leaving the comfort and security of the House was not something he imagined he’d ever do. 

Yes, he had familiarized himself with the workings of the world outside; it was all a hobby, really. With nothing to do but sit around and occasionally discuss how best to bargain with their few allies for aid packages, a fellow got bored sometimes. In between napping, sketching, and jogging laps down the halls of the Palace of Westminster (whatever remained after the first coup that started this mess long ago), he had to find something to keep him busy. While Dan enjoyed reading in the libraries about what _was,_ Will chose to read from his father’s reports about what _is._

But Will never could have dreamed he would be asked to go outside. He didn’t want to go outside. A corner of his mind nagged at him, telling him what a great adventure it would be and boasting all the stories he could tell; but it had never been stronger than his habit of avoiding conflict.

Yet now… he had something greater motivating him to go.

Maybe it was time after all.

That afternoon, Will left the Dome feeling utterly unprepared.

To be honest, even the walk from the House to the inner grounds of the Dome felt like a mistake. He’d wandered around the paved pathways and long-dead turf before, but he preferred to stay indoors. Something about looking at the massive structure made him nervous. 

In reality, the Dome was more of a half-dome— a sheer wall of steel that hugged the remains of the Palace of Westminster, keeping it safe from any attacks via the Thames. What earned the barrier its name was its bowed front, stretching from the dwarfed remains of Big Ben to halfway through the House of Lords. In its circumference was a portion of Westminster Abbey, long crumbled and weathered since before the Dome was erected. Everything contained within the hulking structure was a reminder of conflict and destruction.

But it was home. It was all Will would have ever known— all his parents had ever known— if it weren’t for the records both real and fictional of what London— of what the whole world— used to be. Supplies came in and requests went out, so they were never completely cut off from life outside (everyone in the House would have died long before Will was born, had that been the case). Yet they were a generation of steel and darkness. Will and his brother had never seen green grass except in pictures. Dan and his siblings had never once seen a body of water larger than a bathtub. None of the descendants of the last true Parliament had met the earth they lived on.

And here was Will, ready to leave home for the first time in twenty four years— meaning ever— equipped only with the knowledge of security reports gathered by his father, a wallet filled with a little of what passed as currency these days, a paper filtration mask, and a small knife. This was just as much a covert operation as it was a rescue mission. If he left with too much in the way of provisions, it would make him a target. Ideally, he would find Dan as soon as possible and he wouldn’t need money except to perhaps buy information (or silence) from some observant citizens; and it wouldn’t matter if he carried a knife or a pistol or a bloody rocket launcher, because with any luck he wouldn’t attract violent attention. 

Luck was something he’d need a hell of a lot, though. 

There were only three exits in the Dome: one that faced the bridge across the Thames just outside of Big Ben, one that ended in a tunnel through the Victoria Tower Gardens, and one more that rested in the Abbey ruins. Dan had left through the first. The guards there attested to the young man insisting they let him out— what’s more, with one of their handguns— and using every last drop of his noble privilege to get his way. He went with the promise of returning ‘after a quick look ‘round.’ ‘A quick look ‘round’ definitely wouldn’t take several hours, but the guards were hesitant to stop one of their betters when he was ‘ranting angrily about a king’s rights or something’ like an apparent madman.

(Oh, Dan was definitely _not_ taking his parents’ news well.)

Having exhausted the men of any pertinent information they had, Will commanded that the doors be opened. The sequence of undoing locks took longer than he anticipated, but was not as long as he would have liked it to be. Just because he’d agreed to go fetch his friend from the outside hardly meant that he was suddenly more comfortable with leaving the Dome. There was some excitement to be had, he supposed; he’d be the only person in his family besides his father, and one of the few living Parliament members, to even take two steps away from this metal bubble. But the clanking and beeping of each mechanized lock giving way made his stomach churn.

“Wish me luck,” he said to one of the guards near him as the massive doors swung out into the unknown. _For King and Country, I guess._

And with that, Will’s life changed forever.

He didn’t even make it through the monstrous threshold of the exit before he froze in his steps. In theory, there wasn’t very much to see from here. There was a road before him, marred by scattered craters in the tarmac, probably caused by the pieces of Big Ben that had gone tumbling down ages ago. Looming on the other side of that thoroughfare was a massive building, small enough to probably fit inside the Dome but large enough that he could see little else from left to right; it too had been mistreated by time and the coup. But pavement and buildings were nothing new, even if they were _different._

No, what took Will’s breath away was the sky. 

He knew that it was big, bigger and farther reaching than the ceiling of the Dome— he was _sheltered,_ not _ignorant._ And he knew from eye witness accounts that the skies over London weren’t usually much brighter or any less grey than the colour of the Dome, due just as much to the dismal weather as to the thick haze of dirt and wood smoke and exhaust from generators run on petrol. But the moment he looked up into the murky distance above, he couldn’t help but go perfectly still and stare. He’d imagined this moment for most his life. It somehow met all his expectations while also blowing them away. This was different than studying the skies of a film or a painting. This was _real._

He had to shake himself out of his awe, however, as the guards outside spoke to him through the mumble of their filtration masks, reminding him that the Dome had to be secured quickly. Still with his eyes to the heavens, he staggered out of the way of the doors, listening to the ominous _thump_ of their closing. 

This was it. He was really, truly outside now.

(His mood was somewhere between _hell yes_ and _oh hell no._ )

Now that the doors were closed and his view to either side was unrestricted, his eyes wandered up and down the road as he tried to put himself in Dan’s head. Knowing him, Will figured that if his friend was going to risk his life just to blow off some steam, he’d want to go somewhere that _mattered._ Dan didn’t like the current state of affairs (no one did), but he loved to hear the stories and see the pictures of what used to be. If he’d gone to the left, he was no doubt heading towards the old palaces, Buckingham being the first on the list. ( _Fine place for the future king to go,_ Will mused.) If he’d gone right and across the A302, his sights were no doubt set on the Globe Theatre. (As old books went, the Shakespeare compilations were _really bloody old,_ but Dan had taken a shine to the man’s work.) 

Then again, this was Dan: there was no telling when some wild idea would come up in that daft, imaginative head of his. Pair that with the fact that he’d be navigating on foot a London that was nothing like the old maps portrayed, and the likelihood of him wandering these streets like a lost foreigner was quite high.

After a moment of consideration, Will turned back to the guards behind him. “The last man who left the Dome… where did he go?”

Though their faces were obscured by their masks, it was obvious that the men were throwing glances at each other, questioning what they should do.

With an eye roll and a sigh, Will droned, “I overrule him, you know. It doesn’t matter if he told you to keep quiet, I could kick you both out of your posts straight up and he can’t.”

“He— he headed east, sir.”

“Thanks.”

With that, Will turned once more and made his first steps out onto the desolate road. 

“All right, you big idiot,” he murmured. “Let’s get you out of trouble, shall we?”

Dan was about a solid ninety-two per cent certain his first few hours outside the Dome were not meant to conclude this way.

He’d never had a reason, from early childhood through present day, to doubt anyone when they told him that London was dangerous. What existed beyond the Dome was nothing more than cause and effect— political upheaval leading to economic decline, leading to further social tensions, all the way down the domino effect of life until England was in constant crisis. His parents’ warnings weren’t ghost stories; they were rational, reasonable explanations of a legitimate threat, one that his family and all those in the House were allowed to live separate from while the people outside languished in third world conditions (because _that_ was fair). 

The young man was not looking to pick a fight, even if that was the nature of the streets. As soon as he left the protective purview of the Dome guards, he moved quickly and quietly, head down and eyes alert. From what he’d been told, the only people who went anywhere near the Dome were rioters, but the recently inclement spring weather had been keeping them away, and the city looked dead as a cemetery. But he still kept his wits about him, avoiding anything that looked lived-in.

(He had no problem with the people— absolutely none. His frustration with his family, with everyone in the House, for keeping themselves totally segregated from the rest of the country was heavy. The citizens of the outside couldn’t all be looters and political protestors, could they? There were honest men, women, and children just trying to survive, targets of fate’s wrath looking for safe haven. But if he was frustrated, he could only imagine how angry those people were. If any one of them saw him leaving the Dome, he wouldn’t be surprised if they took out their anger on him.)

The first leg of Dan’s journey was eerily peaceful, but he wasn’t about to complain. From the Dome, it was a simple journey east following Birdcage Walk, winding his way through the sickly trees of St James’s Park to mask his travels. The forest seemed like it lasted forever— not that Dan minded; the few trees he’d ever known up until now were long-dead and rotted, but these ones actually had leaves!— yet the green legion met their abrupt end after a time, giving way to the spectacular sight of the Buckingham ruins.

Well, _spectacular_ was a bit much. The Coliseum was spectacular in its simple beauty, Stonehenge was spectacular in its mystery, but Buckingham Palace was really just a rotting, mouldy imitation of the House. Of course the two buildings were and always had been much different, but their architecture was very _English._ To Dan, it was a bit of what home might have been in a different reality.

He liked to imagine those a lot: alternate histories where things could be less weird. Today’s new imagination was a world where no one was trying to force him into a crown— because that wasn’t too on the nose or anything.

Hands in his pockets, wandering around the partially intact halls of the palace with no real sense of purpose, Dan mulled his situation. He couldn’t help but shake his head as if searching for pity from the barren rooms gaping at him, or moral support from the shattered glass strewn beneath his feet. At least they looked as distressed as he felt. 

_King._ The word wouldn’t leave him, a spectre in his mind. He didn’t want to think about the concept, yet how could he possibly avoid it? His parents— whom he loved to death, whom he respected and supported— wanted to make him something he wasn’t. And while that was presumably something most children went through with their parents to some extent, this expectation had consequences that Dan wasn’t ready to bear. 

He wasn’t a ruler. He wasn’t better suited for leadership than his siblings, and certainly wasn’t the smartest or wisest or most clever person in the House. He was just Dan, and wanted to _stay_ just Dan. Besides, Daniel was a prophet’s name, not a name for kings. He foresaw nothing but trouble if he was made the de facto leader of the Once-United Kingdom.

He knew what they did to royalty around here. Whenever his parents said something like ‘it’s for the best,’ that usually was code for _we’ll be less likely to die this way;_ but this was hardly the smartest way to avoid death.

After a while of moseying (and periodically stumbling, be it over rubble, toppled furniture, or the occasional skeleton), Dan found himself growing sick of Buckingham. He’d spent all his life within walls; he still found himself itching to escape them. 

Dan had read the Bible once through, not as a man of faith but a literature glutton and a boy with little else to do. One of the phrases that stuck in his mind was the comparison of religious imposters to “whited sepulchers”— tombs beautiful on the outside but filled with death and rot inside. The House was something like that: beautiful but dead, unmoving, unchanging. But outside the Dome, while statistically ugly, was alive with potential. 

Things felt better in the openness of the city. The whole experience still had him a bit giddy (or maybe that was the bad air seeping through his mask); after all, he wasn’t just reading about the world, or watching it pass by on a screen. He was _in_ it. The idea of leaving home for a little while had crossed his mind many times, but he’d never been frustrated enough to do it until today. And the newness of it all was intoxicating. This was beyond leaving Westminster and the Dome to put space between him and the unfinished argument with his parents. He wanted to see more.

Thus he tiptoed his way back through the bones and glass and plaster until he was free from the palace walls and once more standing on the greenish-brown grass. He wasn’t exactly sure what direction he’d want to travel, but he had a rebellious little inkling of what he might do. 

More than once, buses had been mentioned in conversation around the House. Petrol was wildly expensive, even by Parliament’s standards, and so it was rationed out to the people for their emergency generators; but some individuals managed to cut a deal with the lords in charge of the rations in order to keep some semblance of transportation going in the city. Cars weren’t possible to drive, and the tube system had gone into permanent disuse nearly fifty years ago. So a small handful of buses were run, mostly to bring people across the boroughs to one of the few hospitals or aid shelters in the area. If one were rich enough, however— or perhaps a talented actor— they could find their way onto a bus to leave their current situation for something better.

Dan was a bloody rubbish actor, but he was about as rich as they made a man in London.

Settling on his decision, the young man set his sights in the general direction he assumed would lead him to Berkley Square Gardens. North from the stump of the old monument outside Buckingham would do the trick. It would be a bit of a hike, but he was certain there was a bus stop somewhere nearby. 

The walk there started out rather pleasant— more trees, of which there again seemed to be an infinite selection— disregarding the thoughts still pecking away in his brain. At least he had something to keep him going, keep him walking, keep him away from the conflict waiting at home. He’d always figured his parents reasonable people, but they were rather hard to argue against. Dan inherited that trait, even though he didn’t like utilizing it unless absolutely necessary. His modus operandi was less to win conflicts and moreso… run away from them. 

_Escapism_ was what all the philosophy books called it. He thought of it as _the preservation of everyone’s sanity._ Lately, though, he had been feeling more absolute on his opinions. Too bad for his parents that they didn’t break this news on him sooner. Now all they’d get was a lot of vocal disagreement.

_(I am not going to be king. I am not going to be a damned king. Think of the trees. The trees are amazing. Trees are great. Definitely not thinking about being king, just thinking about trees.)_

“Oi!”

Apparently Dan was thinking too hard about the trees, considering the voice behind him brought him very close to jumping straight out of his skin. 

He whirled around, wide eyed, scanning the street that he had emerged onto just a minute earlier. Fear and excitement made friction in his chest as he strained to pick out anything vaguely human-looking amongst the desolate surroundings. 

“Oi, love,” the voice rang out again, leading Dan’s stare to a dirty-looking figure sat atop a dumpster. Hopping down from his perch, the Londoner quirked an eyebrow at the wandering blue-blood.

**Author's Note:**

> And that is, quite literally, all she wrote. (Shame, too. Kyle and Charlie were gonna be grifters, it was gonna be so nice. Oh well!) 
> 
> Thanks for reading. <3


End file.
